Van pulled his trench coat closed to ward off the chill of the late afternoon breeze as he paced in front of Tewksbury Gun Works. Three days had passed since the air raid at Broadcasting House, and he couldn’t purge the attractive reporter from his mind. After the all clear sounded, they’d made their way to a British restaurant near Oxford Circus and grabbed a bite to eat. Interesting how coming close to death whetted his appetite. Or maybe it was time spent with the enigmatic woman.
He’d tap-danced around asking her age, but he’d guess she was only a few years younger than his own thirty-eight years. Faint lines in her porcelain skin bracketed her clear blue eyes, the color of an Iowa sky in mid-June. No matter how much he probed, Miss Strealer wasn’t forthcoming about her personal life, other than to say she was the eldest of three girls who also served the war effort.
What was she hiding? Or was she merely someone who valued her privacy? An ironic trait for someone in their field.
Intelligent and witty, she’d shared stories about people from her small town that echoed those from the farming community where his family still resided. Perhaps Cora and he weren’t as different as he initially thought.
Deep within the manufacturing plant, a bell rang, indicating the end of the ten-hour shift. He glanced at his watch. Would his informant meet him as planned, or had she changed her mind about blowing the whistle on her employers? Could she afford to lose her job if discovered as the snitch? Was she brave like Miss Strealer? Should he have her talk to the woman?
No. This was his story. He didn’t need help…or interference.
He continued to walk back and forth on the sidewalk then forced himself to lean against the streetlight. A more casual appearance than his frantic pacing.
The doors opened, and women poured from the building. Hair put back to rights after being stuffed under kerchiefs and dressed in a rainbow of colors, the women chatted and giggled as they hurried to the bus stop, obviously eager to get home. He searched for the brunette he met by accident at the greengrocer near his boardinghouse.
Shopping late, after opening his icebox to a shriveled apple and miniscule lump of cheese, he’d been scouring the nearly vacant shelves for something he could transform into an easy meal when she approached him. Wearing a fedora pulled low over her face, and a brown wool coat that had seen better days, she’d asked him if he was a reporter, like she’d been told. When he replied in the affirmative, she began to talk, words tumbling from her as if they’d been pent up far too long. She claimed her boss, the accountant at Tewksbury Gun Works, was fixing the books to report more staff members than the company actually employed. She didn’t understand how the subterfuge benefited the company, but she knew the activities were wrong.
He suggested she go to the police, but she’d blanched and tried to run out of the shop. He managed to grab her arm and talk her into bringing him proof. A scrap of paper showed up in his mailbox with the plant’s address, today’s date, and a time of five o’clock. The appointed hour had arrived. Would she?
The flow of employees trickled to a dozen then a handful then none. Van waited a few minutes to see if anyone else emerged. No one. He frowned. So much for the chance at a real scoop. Bad enough to be stuck behind the combat lines when most of his colleagues from home were reporting from the front, but to lose the opportunity to unearth corruption stung. Tewksbury couldn’t be the only company trying their hand at war profiteering. How could he sniff out other possible perpetrators? He couldn’t very well start quizzing employees from every manufacturer in London.
With a last glance at the brick façade, he trudged to the end of the street toward the White Stag pub. Maybe he could dig up a story among the revelers. He forked his fingers through his hair and turned, nearly plowing into his informant.
Wearing the same coat and hat she’d worn at the greengrocer’s, she stood, a folded piece of paper clutched in one hand. She tucked her other hand into the crook of his elbow and tugged him forward. “Eyes are everywhere, Mr. Toppel. Did you really think I’d march out of my employer, cross the street, and hand you the proof? Now, pretend we’re having the time of our lives.” Her voice was pitched low and terse, then she threw back her head and laughed. “That was a good one!”
He started to look over his shoulder, and she yanked on his arm. “Are you a cub reporter?”
His face heated. She was right about his acting like a rookie. “Sorry. I’m not used to this cloak-and-dagger stuff.”
“You’ll need to be if you plan to expose these people for who they are.” In a fluid motion, she tucked the sheet of paper into his jacket pocket. She smiled and clung to him as if besotted by his presence. “I took a sheet from the back of the ledger, so hopefully no one will notice it’s missing. Checking the birth and death records for every name should give you the information you seek.”
Van pinned on a smile of his own and spoke though his teeth. “I still think you should go to the police with what you’ve found.”
“Absolutely not. I can’t trust the authorities and neither should you. This evil infiltrates levels you can’t imagine.” The woman leaned close to his ear. “There may be a Pulitzer in it for you. Now, for your protection and mine…” She slapped his right cheek. “How dare you say that! I’m not that kind of girl.” Red faced and scowling, she rushed down the sidewalk.
Hand pressed against his stinging cheek, he gaped at her disappearing figure. Katharine Hepburn had nothing on this woman’s acting ability.
Bumped by the crowds, he blinked, and shook his head. The hour was too late to begin his investigation, but he’d be at the registry at first light. He had his work cut out for him. Maintaining the farce of jilted lover, he plodded toward the bus stop to head back to his boardinghouse. He had a campaign to plan.
Moments later he boarded the bus, getting the last seat in the crowded vehicle. Countless stops later, he arrived at his lodging, cramped and cranky. Too much humanity for his liking. He headed down the aisle and exited the bus then froze.
Cora sat on his doorstep. Wait. When had she gone from Miss Strealer to Cora in his mind? He rubbed his forehead. He’d think about that later. Much later.
Van approached the entrance, and Cora rose, uncertainty etched on her face. “Are you okay? Has something happened?”
She held out a crumpled piece of paper.
A telegram. He’d recognize the distinctive missive anywhere. His pulse raced. “My family? What—”
“No. This is my telegram, but I thought you received one as well.”
“I’ve been out all day.” He snatched the missive from her hand and scanned the words.
NEW ASSIGNMENT WITH VAN TOPPEL. STOP. SERIES OF SIX STORIES DAILY LIFE IN ENGLAND. STOP. OPPOSING PERSPECTIVES. STOP. FIRST ARTICLE FRIDAY DEADLINE. STOP.
“It’s from the bureau chief.” Van stared at her. “Why would he pair me with you?” He winced at the condescension in his voice.
She frowned. “Why would he think I need to work with you?”
“Touché.” He read the telegram again. Maybe his had more information. “I’m already working on a story.”
“You can’t handle more than one?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Cora continued to glare at him, her eyes dark and piercing. “I’m listening."
The more he talked, the deeper the hole he dug. Since when had he become so inept with words? “Okay. Let’s start over.” He returned the telegram to her and blew out a sigh. “We obviously have no choice about our assignment, so let’s figure out the best way to do this without impacting our solo articles. Now, since I’ve been here for nearly two years, I’ve got more of an understanding about the deaths and losses experienced by the British people, so I’ll take that side of the story—”
“You think you corner the market on grief, Van?” Face dark, she crossed her arms. “How many family members or friends have you lost in the war?”
“Well, uh, none. I guess I’ve been lucky.”
“Yet, you claim to understand what the Brits have been dealing with. I’ve got news, fella; until you’ve experienced loss up close and personal, you can’t remotely empathize with someone who’s lived the pain.”
“You—”
“Yes, my husband was killed at Pearl. Sunk on the Arizona, so I’ll never get him back. How about if you stop making assumptions about my abilities and what I know? Our editor wants opposing viewpoints. I’ll take the women’s side, and you take the guy’s. Then we’ll see who has something to report.” She whirled and began to stomp down the street then stopped. “No need to interact on the project. Clear?”
“Clear.” His face burned as if on fire. What a heel. He’d seen the shadows in her eyes, yet he ignored them, judging her on the basis of…assumptions…like she said. Since when did he do his job based on leaps in logic without conducting research first? Even during his cub reporter days, he hadn’t made such a stupid mistake. She had every right to be angry…and hurt. He needed to find her and make amends. Would she give him a second chance? He certainly didn’t deserve one.